


Operant Chamber

by Atypical16



Series: Proper Discipline [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Age Difference, But mostly sadism, Choking, Corporal Punishment, Cruciatus, Dom/sub, Dominance, F/M, Infidelity, Isolation, Magical Violence, Objectification, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Power Imbalance, Psychosis (temporary), S&M, Sexual Violence, Spanking, Submission, Verbal Abuse, Violence, Violence Ahoy, Worship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-20
Updated: 2018-06-08
Packaged: 2019-04-25 10:13:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14376630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atypical16/pseuds/Atypical16
Summary: In a drunken lapse of judgement, Hortensia betrays her master. He promptly finds out and employs a new, harsher method of punishment.





	1. To the Chamber

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel to STC.

_I am the silencing machine (and I control you)_  
_I am the end of all your dreams (and I control you)_  
Nine Inch Nails, “Mr. Self-Destruct” (1994) 

-x-x-x-

Friday the thirteenth: work normally ended between four and five o’clock, but Cygnus Black and Victor Mulciber returned to Cygnus’ office with a bottle of champagne around three. Hortensia was happy to see them, not because she planned on having champagne, but because it signaled the end of a long work week. She was looking forward to curling up on her bed with a book, her favorite past time lately. 

However, the two wizards had other plans for her. Muciber’s secretary showed up, looking just as polished as she did at eight o’clock that morning. Amalthea Sullivan was about ten years older than Hortensia but never treated her like a young girl. “Come, let’s have a goblet or two, shall we?” she suggested. 

Hortensia froze, about to take a sheet of paper from the typewriter, and looked at the men. They were seated around Cygnus’ desk, watching her expectantly. In the large simulated window behind them, the sun was setting, dimming the light in the office to a golden orange. 

“Come, Tensy,” Cygnus said, waving a hand. “You as well, Thea, relax and have some champagne. It’s Cadler’s Rosemary, the finest in all of Europe. Victor, conjure two more goblets.” 

Mulciber did as told and the witches joined them, seated off to the side. From there, they had a pleasant two hours of chatting and drinking. Hortensia had planned on having one goblet, but since the champagne was so tasty and smooth, she had three before she knew it. When the last drop had been swallowed, Mulciber departed, claiming his wife would be cross with him if he left any later. 

“I’ve got to get going, too,” said Amalthea, much to Hortensia’s disappointment. The two witches hugged each other before the older one left. Her footsteps echoed around the quiet office; everyone else had gone home. 

Hortensia was not in such a strict time-constraint, since her master never came for her before six. Not to mention, he hadn’t fetched her in months. Ignoring the blanket of sorrow forming around her shoulders, she turned to Cygnus to bid him farewell. 

“Wait, Tensy.” Lazily, he flicked his wand and closed the door. “I’ve got to talk to you about something.”

In her sleepy, warm haze, she nodded, assuming it was work-related, since he’d never talked about anything else with her in the two years she’d been his secretary. 

She was wrong—he didn’t want to talk about work, or talk at all, apparently. Instead, he stood, strode over, pulled her to him, and brought his champagne-soaked mouth to hers. 

“Cygnus, wait,” she breathed as he pressed into her, forcing her backward until her back was against the wall. “We can’t.” 

“Says who?” he challenged softly in her ear, unbuttoning her robes and yanking down her bra so that her breasts spilled out into the open. 

“Cygnus, no…” 

“Don’t tell me no.” He ducked his head to run his tongue down the curve of her cleavage and flick it over her nipple. Meanwhile, his hand snaked up her skirt, rubbing the damp spot of her knickers. "You can't imagine how many times I've dreamed about taking you on my desk." 

“No—you’re—we can’t—” 

“You and I both know my wife no longer pleases me,” he hissed impatiently as he dropped to his knees, pushing up her robes. She was wearing hose with no waist, so he got between her legs easily, trailing his fingers up the soft curve of her inner thigh. “Especially when I’m around a beautiful thing like you every day.” 

“And forget about Riddle for the moment,” he added. “He doesn’t treat you right, either.” Without another word, he propped her leg up against the wall, pulled aside her knickers, and lapped at the juices dripping from her bright pink lips. He licked them slowly, deliberately, like he would an ice cream cone.

The back of Hortensia’s head met the wall as she arched her back and let out a sigh of pleasure. A burning flush rose to her cheeks and she tilted her hips, searing with arousal. It had been so long since she’d been touched so intimately, and she’d missed it terribly. A voice was nagging at her to _stop it, you’re going too far_ , but it sounded far away, from somewhere across London. Her hand was gripping his coarse dark hair while his tongue slid in and out of her, drawing out gasps and cries.

A tingle was taking over her nerves, pulling everything taut until she was burning for release. Feeling this, his tongue moved to her clit, flattening against it, and two of his fingers slid inside of her. After barely a minute, her walls tightened around those fingers, spilling out a gush of fluid. He licked some of it off and stood up. 

Her ears were ringing, knees wobbling, so it took her a few seconds to touch back down to Earth. Once she did and realized what she’d just done, gravity returned full-force, nearly crushing her heart within her chest. 

“Oh, Merlin!” she squeaked, yanking down her robes and buttoning her blouse with shaking hands. “I’m dead!”

“Don’t worry,” said Cygnus, gripping her hips and rubbing the erection under his trousers against her. “No one will find out.” 

“No—he will!” 

“Who, Riddle?” 

She answered with a shove against his shoulders, harder than she’d intended. He stumbled and stared at her, eyebrows knitted together. 

“I’m sorry!” she gasped, throwing her hands up. “I didn’t mean—just—I can’t go further.”

He took a step toward her and she flinched, expecting anger, but he merely tucked a lock of auburn hair behind her ear. “That’s a pity, Tensy. If you change your mind, please don’t hesitate to come to me. Or should I say”—he winked, dark eyes glinting with mischief—“come _for_ me.” 

She managed a weak smile before scuttling to the fireplace in her own office. Heart pounding madly, she scooped up a fistful of Floo Powder and shouted, “Headmaster’s Tower, second floor, Hogwarts!” 

She threw the powder at her feet and flew away. Bursting into her sitting room, the weight of guilt hit her again, nearly bringing her to her knees. The contents of her stomach came alive, searing hot, sloshing around and scalding the lining. 

This was it—her time on Earth was about to come to a swift end when her master would find out what she’d done. Find out he would, having the ability to simply pluck it from her mind. Once he did, she was done for, dead, her body in the depths of the Black Lake, ripe for a pack of grindylows to feast on… 

A sickening mix of burning stomach acid and champagne surged up her throat and filled her cheeks. She bolted to the bathroom and let loose in the sink, heaving and shaking violently. As soon as she’d calmed herself, another surge came up and bent her double, gagging. With a weak, aching hand, she cupped water from the tap and rinsed out her mouth. 

_You can do this_ , she told herself. _Keep at the Occlumency, keep him out._ Perhaps it was strong enough to block him. Perhaps by the next time she saw him, it wouldn’t even—

“Hortensia,” a low voice said behind her, instantly locking all of her muscles. Slowly, she forced herself to turn around. 

Tom Riddle, the world’s darkest sorcerer disguised as the headmaster of Hogwarts, was standing in the doorway of the bathroom. Tall, pale, and dressed in all black with a strikingly handsome face, he was a formidable figure even when she was not guilty of anything. 

His dark eyes took in the scene. “What’s wrong with you?” 

Hortensia’s raspy voice was barely audible over the heartbeat thumping in her ears. “I-I got sick, sir,” she said, keeping her gaze on his boots. 

“You’ve been drinking.” It was not a question. He already knew, whether by her appearance or the sickly-sweet smell of the bathroom, she didn’t know. She sure didn’t feel hazy anymore; her nerves were screaming, sensing danger. 

“I had champagne with Black, Mulciber, and Sullivan,” she said in a surprisingly steady voice. It was the truth and therefore, easier to get out. 

“And then?” 

She swallowed hard, her mouth and throat chafing, since they were completely dry. “And then I came home.” 

“Ah-uh, there is something between those two events that you’re not telling me.” The words were in a dangerously low voice, sending a chill up her spine. His boots took a step closer, a flash of his hand, and then his fingers were digging into her cheek, yanking her head up. 

Her eyes snapped to his, then lowered on instinct, which only angered him more. He squeezed her harder. _“Look at me.”_

Never before had she seen eyes like her master’s. Normally black and cold, they lit up with the quickest flash of red. In desperation, Hortensia tried to employ Occlumency. Since she’d never been formally taught, her strategy was to focus on the last innocent part of the day: stacking the freshly-typed memos in her drawer to be sent out first thing Monday morning. 

It didn’t work nearly as well as she hoped. The evening played out before her eyes, out of her control. As soon as Cygnus Black pushed her against the wall, drooling with lust, Riddle tore himself out of her mind. She’d only blinked in the time it took for him to release her and smack her hard across the face. 

Her head jerked back and she cried out, nearly losing her balance. Just as she righted herself, another harsh slap came to the same cheek. Whimpering, she took a step back, slamming the back of her legs on the toilet. 

_“Accio wand.”_

As she stood frozen, her wand shot out of the pocket of her robes and into his hand. He tucked it away and tightened his grip on his own, pointing it between her eyes. His face was blank but the loathing in his voice was clear. “Get downstairs.”

For a horrible moment, her feet were glued to the tiled floor, but then she took a step. One foot after the other, her chest threatening to burst, her body acted without her brain, bringing her to the headmaster’s chamber. 

Normally, she was to sit at his side on the floor in front of the large leather armchair by the empty fireplace, but she doubted that he wanted her there now. Sure enough, she got halfway across the room before he pushed her roughly to the wooden floor. “On your hands and knees.” 

That was precisely how she landed, her hands and knees slamming against the wood, her auburn hair falling over her swollen cheek. His footsteps retreated, and she heard leather rubbing against itself. 

“Look at me.” 

Hortensia lifted her head. When her eyes met his, she was back in the office, watching herself arch her back, pinned to the wall and gasping. Cygnus Black knelt in front of her, his hair clasped in her fist. 

“Have fun, did you?” Riddle asked coldly, eyes narrowed and lips pursed in disgust. 

“N-no, sir,” she stammered, shivering with terror. 

“Stop lying to me, you filthy fucking whore,” he spat, raising his wand. The swear caused her to flinch; he’d never sworn in front of her before. “I should have known you aren’t to be trusted around other men. You worthless, disgusting bitch, you don’t deserve to live.” 

“No!” she cried just as he hissed, _“Crucio!”_

White hot flames engulfed her, along with a shrill piercing in her ears and the most excruciating pain she’d ever felt in her life. She thrashed about, screaming at the top of her lungs, but she could barely hear it over the ringing. Then, as suddenly as it had come, it was gone. 

Only her ragged breaths filled the room as she lie on her back, fighting for air. She stared at the ceiling through a lock of hair thrown over her eyes, stuck to the layer of sweat that had formed over her whole body. 

“Ready for more?” Riddle asked in a mock-pleasant tone. 

“No! Master, please no!” 

“Pity. _Crucio!”_

Again came the agony and the flames, but they were only in her head, consuming her vision, not on her skin. That realization did not help with the pain in the slightest bit. At one point, she was aware of her head slamming into the floor, but that barely registered. After what felt like hours of contorting and howling, the curse was lifted. 

As she flopped onto her back, she felt moisture on the side of her face. Her nose was throbbing and she tasted blood on her lips. Both were sore and bleeding, along with the fingers on her right hand. She lifted herself off the floor, whimpering, afraid to look in the direction of the armchair. 

On the floor near a small splatter of blood were scratches in the wood that lined up with her broken, bloody fingernails. She must have been clawing at the floor. 

“What have you got to say for yourself?” 

“I’m sorry, Master!” she bawled, hugging herself and keeling over. “Please, Merlin, I’m so sorry!” Tears stung her eyes, the skin around them red and raw from squeezing them shut. 

“Sorry that you got caught. _Crucio!”_

The blinding pain only lasted a second before blissful blackness took over. That, too, lasted only seconds before spitting her back into reality. 

When she opened her eyes, the tips of his black boots made up most of her vision. 

“Get up.” 

A wave of nausea spread through her stomach and crept up her throat. Everything hurt, even breathing. 

“I said, _get up_ , Hortensia.” 

The boots retreated and a fist was wrapping around her hair, pulling on her scalp and smarting her eyes with more tears. Thankfully her muscles were working properly, aiding him in picking her up from the floor. 

Riddle was dragging her across the chamber to a door she’d always assumed led to a bathroom. It did not. When he pushed her through, she saw one of the most terrifying sights of her life. 

It was innocuous enough, if not a bit creepy: a stone staircase around the curved wall, sinking into shadow. But for Hortensia, in Riddle’s grip between his fist and his wand, it was the pathway to her demise. 

“No,” she whispered, trembling violently. It was much colder here, closed off from the warmth of the fire. Her shaking had little to do with the cold and everything to do with that staircase. “Please, no…” 

She felt his hot breath in her ear as he pulled her closer and said softly, “Too late for begging, darling. Let’s go.” 

Her brain sent the command to her foot to move, but it got lost somewhere along the way. She stood frozen until his fist tightened in her hair. 

“Disobedient bitch, I said let’s go.” He pushed past her, still latched to her hair, forcing her to descend the stairwell into the shadows. For a moment, her view was completely black until a door opened in front of her and she was being thrown through it, landing on a dusty stone floor. Peeling her hair from the sticky, half-dried blood on her cheeks, she propped herself up on her hands and knees, taking in the unfamiliar place. 

It was completely empty. Nothing but the stone circular walls of the tower, a single window high out of reach, and a dark, small alcove on the far right with a chamber pot. Rapidly-dimming orange light streamed through it. 

Hortensia straightened, about to sit up, but in one swift motion, Riddle kicked her back onto the floor. “Time to say your prayers, darling. This is where you die.”

“No!” she cried for seemingly the thousandth time, her voice squeaky and weak. “Master, I’m so sorry, please don’t kill me!” 

“Oh, now Tensy is _sorry,”_ he mocked, taking his foot off her back. “Tensy doesn’t want to _die_ , poor little baby. Do tell, who would even miss you? Only I own you, and I surely wouldn’t miss you.” 

Tears sprang to Hortensia’s eyes as her insides twisted in agony. The words hurt almost as much as the Cruciatus Curse, tearing her heart out of her chest. 

He watched as she collapsed at his feet, weeping. “Trust, darling, that by the time I’m done with you, you’ll be begging for death.” She heard ruffling of clothing before he yanked at her hair again, pulling her upright. Inches away from her face, his hand rested on his belt buckle. An absurd twinge of desire bloomed between her legs as she watched him unhook the belt. 

“You have one last chance to prove you’re not entirely useless,” Riddle told her, pressing his fist against the back of her head. “So I suggest you take it as if your life depends on it.”

Knowing she had no other choice, she opened her mouth just as he undid his trousers. A moment later, she closed her swollen lips around his hot, hard cock sliding against her tongue. 

It was rather difficult to focus when death seemed to be breathing down her neck, threatening to take her in a flash of green light. However, her master’s heavy breathing and thrusting were encouraging; she was doing a good job. She was happy not only to be evading death but pleasing her master, the only thing that brought her enjoyment anymore. It had been ages since he’d given her the chance to. 

“That’s it, little slut, show your worth,” he growled between breaths. “This is where you belong, on your knees.” He released her hair and flattened his palm against her scalp, driving himself deeper down her throat, spilling drool over her chin. She caught herself before gagging, taking it diligently. 

“Filthy Hortensia loves taking it in her mouth, isn’t that right?” 

She hummed around his cock in agreement, lovingly pulling the thin skin at the hilt with her lips. The split in her bottom lip from where she’d bitten through reopened and she tasted blood. This caused her to hesitate, so he clutched her head with both hands and rammed harder into her. His tip rubbed against the back of her throat, and she started to choke, her nose buried in thick dark curls. For one awful second, she couldn’t breathe at all, thinking she might drown in her own saliva. He gave three hard thrusts before pulling out. 

Closing her eyes just in time, she felt warm gel splash across her face. A tear that had spilled out washed away the drop near the rim of her left eye, allowing her to open it. 

Riddle took her head in his hands again, smearing some of the seed into her hair, and tilted it up to gaze at her without expression. Despite her body crying in pain and the fluid dripping off her jaw, she wanted him to hoist her up and slide his cock into her, holding her close. But he’d tucked it away already, having gotten what he wanted. 

“You wish for me to touch you?” he sneered, digging his fingertips into her sore scalp. “How pathetic you are. You don’t deserve my touch or another second of my time. You’re nothing but a dumb, cock-sucking whore. Say it.”

Hortensia was crying again, attempting to wipe the mix of body fluids from her face with the sleeve of her robe. A harsh slap interrupted the process, throwing her to her side. 

“Say it,” he hissed. 

“I-I am a dumb, cock-sucking whore,” she choked out, the words ripping her throat. 

“You are _nothing.”_

“I am nothing.” 

Eyes brimming with everlasting tears, she looked up at him, silently pleading for absolution she was unlikely to ever receive. She knew she didn’t deserve it, but that knowledge did not relieve her need for it. He answered with a smirk and biting parting words: “Too right you are.” 

He turned and walked away. “Master,” she whimpered, reaching for him in desperation. The only worse thing than Riddle hurting her was Riddle leaving her, which he clearly liked to use to his advantage. 

“Shut up,” he called over his shoulder before walking through the rounded doorway. As soon as he took a step up the stairs, the doorway filled with stone wall, sealing her inside. 

Though it was obviously futile, Hortensia scrambled to the wall and ran her hands over it, searching for a crack. Of course, there was none, and after only a couple of seconds, her legs turned to pudding, bringing her back to the floor. 

Her back rested against stone, and a long wail of despair tore through her throat. Her master was gone for who-knows-how long. She was stuck in this cold, empty chamber with her racing thoughts and bruised, aching bones. 

“He has to come back eventually,” she assured herself in a cracked whisper. There was no conviction—the headmaster could very well leave her there to die. “No…no, no, no…” 

Her chest tightened, her heart pumped erratically, and her ears rang. She was paralyzed with terror for a full minute, doubling over and wheezing. Panic raced through her nerves, but when her head met the cool stone, the ringing cleared and her heart slowed. 

Eventually, long after the high window only showed blackness with a sprinkling of stars, depending on the angle, Hortensia calmed enough to tuck herself into a ball, wrapping her robes around her as cocoon-like as possible.

Despite the cold, fear, hunger, pain, and the hard stone pressing relentlessly against her aching body, her eyes sank shut and she drifted off into a fitful sleep, the last mercy the empty chamber would grant her. 

-x-x-x-


	2. In the Chamber

_She caught me off my guard_  
 _Amazes me the will, the instinct_  
Nirvana, “Polly” (1991) 

-x-x-x-

How Hortensia got through the night, she’ll never know. What she did know was that she’d gnaw off her left arm to leave this chamber. Though she’d never betray her master again, she prayed he would come for her and take her out of here. 

The sun rose, traveled through the sky out of view, and flooded the room with orange light as it set, shining on the witch curled up on the stone floor. She had no idea what time it was—her watch was stuck at 9:21, the minute she’d been thrown in here. She was terribly hungry, but a churning storm was wreaking havoc in her stomach. 

As she sat up, deciding yet another nap wasn’t coming, she grimaced and felt dried fluid flake off her cheek. The last 24 hours had been eventful, to put it mildly. After letting her superior slide his tongue between her legs, undergoing the Cruciatus Curse multiple times, getting a faceful of ejaculate, and sobbing on the dusty floor for hours, she could’ve sure used a bath. 

Worse yet than the relentless grey walls and absence of any furniture was the damn silence. It thickened the air and drove into her skull. Around noon, or so she assumed judging by the sun, she began to sing out of sheer desperation to fill the silence. Her throat burned and her voice was raspy and pitiful, but still she sang until her mouth dried up. Since the only water she had access to was from the toilet, her saliva was growing precious. 

Her stomach was roiling and rumbling non-stop. By nightfall, her lips were dry and the silence was deafening. Forgoing the singing, Hortensia settled on conjuring tunes both fast and slow, playing them out in her head. A few times, she considered dancing, but her muscles were on fire. Every so often, tingles of pain shot through her arms and legs, residual from the Cruciatus. 

By the time the sky was inky black, her mouth felt as if it was coated in rubber and she had run out of songs. She had—once had—an extensive record collection. She wondered if her mother still kept them. 

Just the fleeting thought of her mother brought back the tide of misery, which quickly turned into anxiety. Her master’s cruel words replaced the tunes, plaguing not only her mind but her chest and stomach. _You don’t deserve to live…here is where you die…_

Her master would have no qualms about killing her; he had killed before, she strongly suspected. How else would one become the most powerful, covert ruler of Magical Britain? He wouldn’t have any trouble finding another witch, a better one. That caused Hortensia more anguish than the thought of dying. Of course, she wasn’t close to death yet…

 _Enough_ , she scolded herself. _Worry when the time comes, when it looks like he’s not coming back._

Though she was able to keep her thoughts from whirring into yet another frenzy, her hands were trembling. She clenched them into fists and crawled closer to the wall. Lying down for the majority of the day had resulted in ache deep into her bones. She was tall and willowy, not padded enough to offset the hard floor. 

Hortensia decided to try sleeping seated, propped up against the wall. Her stomach finally settled, overtaken by the hollow pang of hunger and constant rumbling. She welcomed it, using it as a lullaby to fill the still, silent chamber. Eventually, the hunger subsided enough for her to doze off. 

No sooner than she had entered the cloud of sleep, footsteps cut through it, jolting her awake. The torches were lit, spilling firelight into the room. 

Rubbing her eyes, she turned to see what she’d been praying for over a day: the tall, black-robed figure of her master. Better still, he was holding a dish with what smelled like porridge. 

Her mouth instantly watered, finally unsticking her tongue from the roof of her mouth. Unfortunately, it was fleeting, but at least she’d be able to eat. Hopefully. 

Headmaster Riddle said nothing, setting down the dish at his feet and straightening up, watching her. She was ready to gallop toward him like a horse that had just been branded with a hot poker, but moving without permission was not a good idea. 

She cleared her throat and tried to ask for it, but her mouth had gone bone-dry again. Only a harsh bark escaped; she looked away, embarrassed. 

“Come on, then,” he commanded. “Eat.” 

Trying not to wince, she approached on all fours the dish at his feet. With a weak, shaky hand, she lifted a spoonful of porridge to her mouth. At first, the taste—bland but delicious just by virtue of being the only thing edible—consumed her, lifting her spirit as she gulped it down. But then it became the enemy, turning viscous in her throat and clogging it up. She dropped the spoon and gulped frantically, massaging her neck and trying to conjure up saliva. There was none—she needed water. 

“Master,” she squeaked, the strongest she could get her voice. Though she was to keep her eyes averted around him, she couldn’t help but look up in desperation.

He turned his gaze from somewhere distant down to her. With his foot, he pushed the dish to the side. “Done already? Turn around on your hands and knees.”

“Master, please, I’m thirsty,” Hortensia begged, but she was smart enough to obey anyway. She heard him kneel behind her and felt cool air on the back of her thighs—he was lifting her skirt. This brought forth a surge of desire so intense, her thirst was abated and his next words all but drowned out. 

“Not good enough for this choosy little thing, I see.” Her knickers were pulled down, and then came a swift slap to her rear. She whimpered, bracing her hands on the floor for more impact. 

“Funny how she’s so judicious with her food but not with men.” He struck her again, the slap echoing around the chamber. “Dumb, ungrateful bitch, you’re lucky to get anything at all. I had porridge for nearly every meal as a child, but I never complained.”

SMACK! Her eyes were burning, but tears wouldn’t come. The skin of her eyelids dragged against the eyeballs, stinging them even more. He pressed down on her back, nearly slamming her head into the floor. She slipped her hand under her cheek just in time. 

Meanwhile, he was rubbing her between her legs, fingers gliding against slick, hot skin. Her hips tilted back and she released a sigh. Then he pulled back and slapped her there, causing her to cry out. Before the stinging subsided, he was grabbing her hips and filling her with his cock. 

She bit back a moan and ducked lower, allowing him to hit the spot deep inside. After only a minute of his rough thrusts and fingers digging into her hips, she came hard and fast, letting out a throaty howl. 

“Can’t get enough, can you?” he breathed, pulling out and releasing her. A second later, his fist clutched her hair and pulled her upright. “Turn around.”

Her master stood, yanking her head toward his cock, her pearly fluid dripping from the tip. He dug his fingertips into her cheeks, forcing open her mouth. As soon as her lips parted, he slid in between them, soaking them with her tangy fluid. 

She sucked it off and closed her eyes, ready to perform her best, but he gave one pump and hot, salty fluid filled her mouth. He withdrew again, taking a step back and adjusting his robes. Some of the seed dribbled down her chin as she panicked, wondering if she could spit it, and where. 

Riddle made that decision for her, clapping a hand over her mouth. “Don’t you dare,” he hissed. _“Swallow._ Aren’t you thirsty?” 

Hortensia had difficulty keeping the grimace off her face, but she got all the thick liquid down, wiping her chin on her sleeve. 

It had not quenched her thirst; in fact, it exacerbated it. Riddle expressed how concerned he was by turning away and leaving without a backward glance. The stone wall re-appeared behind him. 

The mix of his seed and the porridge was making her sick. Mustering all of her strength, she crawled to the toilet and let loose. 

She willed it to flush away so she could dip her hands into cool water and scoop it to her mouth, but it wouldn’t on its own. Her mouth was coated with clay, or so it seemed, preventing her from speaking. The only other thing she could think of to do was try eating more porridge, so she began to crawl across the chamber to the bowl on the other side. She didn’t make it, collapsing halfway there. 

There she lay flat on her back as the torchlight went out, dark and cold took over, and finally, bright morning light. It beat down through the window and stabbed through her eyelids, but she was too exhausted to roll over. It wasn’t as if she’d be comfortable either way. 

Footsteps were approaching, piercing her ears even though they weren’t loud at all. Just as her mind told her neck to turn, Hortensia heard a quiet, _“Aguamenti,”_ and a burst of water splashed her in the face. 

Since her lips had been parted, fresh water filled her mouth and snapped her upright. That first swallow was heavenly, soothing her stomach and bringing clarity in seconds. She wiped her face and sucked on a damp lock of matted hair, greedy for more. 

Riddle was walking back toward the doorway. “Wait!” she cried without thinking, reaching for the hem of his robes. 

He yanked them away and glowered at her. “Stupid girl, don’t even try it.”

Walking briskly now, he exited the chamber, leaving Hortensia sitting on her legs, staring at the stone wall. She let out a heavy breath and licked her lips. She was dying for more of his touch, even if it was a slap in the face, but he knew that, so he wouldn’t go near her. How much was enough? She wondered bitterly, bubbling anger searing the back of her throat. How much more could he step on her?

All ill feelings toward Riddle vanished as she saw out of the corner of her eye the sun reflecting off a large glass pitcher filled with crystal clear water. 

Suddenly racing with energy, she jumped to her feet, hurtled over to it, and snatched it up to her mouth, spilling some down her front. Merlin, it was the most refreshing substance in the entire world. She washed her face thoroughly and wiped it on the bottom of her dress. All of her clothing was dusty, but her skin still came out smooth and clean. And, to top it off, a fresh dish of porridge had been set down nearby. 

Hortensia’s stomach was at maximum capacity with sloshing water, but the sight of the pitcher and dish together elated her. If he was meeting her physiological needs, he was unlikely to kill her—yet. 

And, she realized, it was Sunday. He had to let her out within the next twelve hours so she could return to the Ministry…

However, day turned into night and still she was not released. Riddle did not return. The porridge dish filled thrice on its own accord, but the water in the pitcher stayed the same. 

By that night, the pounding of Hortensia’s heart was filling her ears, her chest seizing up in panic. Could he really leave her there to rot? Seemed as if that was the case—or he wanted her to go mad. Between the god-awful beating and unchanging surroundings, she was starting to feel madness racing in her veins. 

To ground herself, she gathered her snarly hair and pressed it against her cheeks. Oddly, that helped her to calm down enough to think of an idea to keep her lucid, which turned out to be reciting passages of Dante’s Inferno out loud in Latin, her best subject. This felt quite like hell, after all. 

The sun came and went. The water was getting low, so Hortensia took sips only sparingly. Not only had she recited every canto from Inferno that she could recall, she was ready to gauge them into the stone with her fingernails. Only sleep and daydreams brought her relief from the crushing boredom. 

On the morning of day four—or was it five?—a loud tapping on the window startled Hortensia so badly, she began to tremble all over. She looked up and saw an owl-shaped shadow blocking some of the sunlight. 

Wrinkling a brow in confusion, she stood up and took a few steps backward to see it better. It was indeed an owl, a tawny one she’d never seen before, holding a letter. It tapped on the glass again with its beak, but she couldn’t even reach the window, let alone open it. She was as useless as a muggle in here. 

The owl flew away after another minute, taking the letter with it. Hortensia stayed by the window, but the animal didn’t return. All day she waited, heart slightly lifted with hope even though she couldn’t imagine who on Earth would be sending her a letter here. Or anywhere, for that matter. 

Perhaps it was the Ministry looking for her, since she hadn’t been at work, but she doubted that. Riddle had probably fed them some story explaining her absence. 

The sun came and went. The pitcher now had just a sliver of water left, so she avoided it except to wash down the last mouthful of porridge. The damn thing was so enticing, the light glistening off the meager surface, so eventually she moved it into the alcove next to the toilet, where hopefully it would lose some appeal. 

The owl was back. This time Hortensia could clearly see the envelope, though it appeared to be without writing. The bird’s beak slammed relentlessly into the glass, but she shook her head, gesturing to the ceiling to direct it to Riddle’s bedchamber. 

The owl’s head tilted up. “Yes, there!’” she coaxed. “To the headmaster!” Oh, this was perfect. Not only would Riddle bring the letter, she could possibly get out of here. 

Or not, since the owl clasped the letter and flew off toward the lake. “Damn!” Hortensia grumbled, stomping her foot. If she had to be stuck in this hell, she’d at least like something to read. 

After an hour of choppy, nonsensical daydreaming and pacing around the chamber, she looked up and, with joy, saw the owl again at the window. “Up there!” she shouted, waving her arms and pointing. “Take it up _there_!” 

The owl turned away in response and lifted its wings, preparing for takeoff. 

“No!” Hortensia cried, losing patience. “WHERE ARE YOU GOING? Get back here, goddamn it!” 

It was gone: only the clear blue sky was visible, mocking her. She lost it completely then, stomping her feet and shrieking in rage. “Let me out of here, Merlin help me! Enough is enough!” 

In blind fury, she ran to the area where the stone wall hid the staircase and pounded her fists against it. “Come on, you sadistic bastard, come and kill me already! What are you waiting for, you insane—?” 

“Well, well, well,” said a voice behind her. She whipped around to see Riddle standing next to the porridge, pointing his wand at her. 

“Master!” she bawled, nearly slamming he forehead against the floor in prostration. 

“Oh, now it’s Master,” Riddle chided. “Now you want me. Well, your wish is my command, darling. _Avada Kedavra!”_

 _“No!”_ she howled as green light flooded the room. She squeezed her eyes shut and waited for blackness to take over, going limp. That was it, the end after twenty-one short years…

But wait—she was still alive. And alone: Riddle was gone, the stone wall sealed. How had he left? Even more strangely, how had he gotten in? He would’ve had to step over her. Not to mention the failed Killing Curse, which she was sure he could perform aptly enough to kill her if that was his intention. 

She shook her head, trying to gather her thoughts. No, Riddle had not been here at all. She’d dreamt him up. She checked her watch: 9:21. How was that possible? Right, it wasn’t working. 

“Goddamn,” she muttered to herself. “I’m going barking mad.”

The sun came and went. Though Hortensia still doubted whether her master’s visit had been real, the image of him standing near her, looking down at her with that sharp, cool expression. He was so attractive and seductive and she yearned for him despite her rage at him. She fell asleep with her hand up her dress after rubbing herself silly, but she woke up every hour, or so it seemed. 

Morning brought back the owl, the letter still clutched in its beak. More than ever, Hortensia was determined to get it. “Stay there!” she shouted, jumping up to reach the window, which of course was futile. The window was too high above her head, even if she had anything to stand on. 

Knowing there was nothing in the chamber suited for this purpose, she glanced around anyway and saw Riddle leaning casually against the wall. 

“Master!” she squawked, gesturing to the owl. “Please help me get the letter in here! Please!”

Riddle snickered and shook his head. “It’s not for you. Who would be writing to such a worthless slut? A waste of ink and parchment.”

The words wounded her, but the owl didn’t let her dwell, giving a harsh rap against the window. 

“Why is it here, then?” Hortensia protested. “It should be in your office! It doesn’t belong here!” 

“You don’t belong here, Hortensia Travers.” Riddle’s voice was deeper than usual, echoing against itself. “Not at Hogwarts, not on Earth.”

“W-what?” Her knees were wobbling, threatening to send her crashing to the floor. His eyes were so piercing, yet so empty, that it hurt to look at them. Wincing, she turned to the owl, which, to her horror, had the same chilling glare. Its eyes, too, were black and hollow, burning her with contempt. 

_He’s right, it’s not for you_ , it said in her head. _No one would ever write to you. No one would ever bother with you. Look what you’ve done to the one who did._

“No,” she whispered, collapsing onto her knees and bringing her hands to her face. Guilt and fear clenched her stomach, ready to expel remnants of the porridge. “No, Merlin, I’m so sorry…”

“Oh, now Tensy is sorry,” mocked Riddle from somewhere above. The scathing words rang familiar; he’d said them before.

As the two pairs of dark eyes burned holes into her head, Hortensia curled into a ball, heaving and sobbing. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry…” She mumbled the words over and over, pressing her temple into the cold floor and letting feeble tears drip over her nose. Panic gripped her, locking her in place. 

When she’d finally gotten her heart and lungs under control, she sat up, dizzy and weary. Riddle and the owl had both disappeared. 

The walls were closing in, the air was thick, her mouth was dry—water. She needed some. She crawled over to the alcove and lifted the pitcher to her mouth. There was enough to moisten her tongue but not her throat. The pitcher did not refill. 

“Damn it,” she growled, hurling it across the chamber. It merely bounced off the floor and rolled away. 

The sun came and went. The walls were closing in, the air pressing her chest, pinning her to the floor. Her watch was ticking, but its hands did not budge from the nine and the four. Spots danced in front of her eyes, her cheeks flushed, her muscles stiff. For the hell of it, she flung her hand over her head. Her knuckles slammed against the pitcher, but it was colder than last time, more stable, and wet with condensation. 

Hortensia craned her neck to see the most glorious sight her eyes had never laid upon: water glistening in the sunlight, filling the pitcher halfway. She hoisted herself up and dove for it. Her last few orgasms couldn’t compare to that first gulp of water. 

A few more gulps later, she heard footsteps advancing. Unsurprised to see Riddle, she set down the pitcher and informed him, “I’m not falling for this again.”

“I beg your pardon?” He stopped and raised his eyebrows. 

Her energy ran out then, so she fell back onto her rear and leaned against the wall. “Come to kill me, have you?” The question came out dull and listless. “Will you finally go through with it this time?” 

“You wish to die?” he asked, his lip curling in disgust. “Pathetic girl, you’ve given up already?” 

Hortensia shook her head, rolling the back of her skull against the cool stone. Her lips parted and her eyes drifted toward the ceiling, unable to focus. “No, sir. I’d like to live, but clearly, I don’t deserve to. It’s your will I am concerned about above all.”

“Liar,” he snapped, but it came out slightly lilted in confusion. 

_He isn’t real_ , she reminded herself. _None of this is. You’re past the point of insanity._

This thought comforted her and loosened up her tongue. An illusion couldn’t kill her. “I’m not lying, sir. I am succumbing. Isn’t that what you wanted? For me to learn that my worth is directly tied to how well I can please you? I’ve failed to. I’ve failed you and I regret that. Though I made it this far, so I didn’t fail myself. Yet.”

She spoke to her knees, feeling his eyes on her, and let the words fall flat on the floor. A beat passed in silence before Riddle spoke. “Rise, Hortensia.”

It took her a few minutes, but she eventually got to her feet, pressing a palm against the wall for support. Riddle took her elbow and guided her through the doorway. 

Well, this took an interesting turn, she thought as he all but hauled her up the stairs. When they arrived in his bedchamber, he steered her to another door by his bed. 

This one led to a green-tiled bathroom with a large claw-foot tub filled nearly to the brim with soapy water. She was so taken aback by the sudden change of scenery, she couldn’t make herself move toward the tub despite her intense want of a bath. 

“Go on,” Riddle prompted from behind her, startling her and giving her a nudge. In her awe, she’d nearly forgotten his presence. 

The warm water enveloped her, caressing her whole body at once. A heavy sigh left her lips as nearly all the tension and ache was released. 

“Join me at my side when you’re done,” her master told her before leaving. 

For a blissful moment, her eyes fluttered shut and the world went black. When she returned to reality, she fully expected to see the merciless grey of the chamber. But no, she was still in this marbled bathroom ensconced in warm water. 

Perhaps this wasn’t all in her head. Perhaps she really was in this divine bathtub. Or perhaps her imagination was growing stronger, her mind better at protecting her. 

Once she’d scrubbed the days-old filth from her skin and hair, Hortensia unplugged the drain and climbed out of the tub. Wrapping a large, soft towel around herself, she went over to the mirror to comb her hair and brush her teeth. Might as well revel in this fantasy, she thought, until she caught sight of herself in the mirror and recoiled in revulsion. 

Whatever Hortensia had pictured herself as, it wasn’t the bruised-up, haunted wraith staring back at her. Ugly, purplish blotches covered her temples, her lips were swollen and puffy, and her eyes peered through grey shadows. 

She raised a shaking hand and pressed her fingertips to the mirror. The wraith did the same. This was not a hallucination—this was her. No way she could’ve imagined herself in this state, broken and nearly mental. But she was still here and, most importantly, out of the chamber. 

-x-x-x-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI: The next chapter will be 90% smut to make up for the lack of it in this one.


	3. Out of the Chamber

_And the hate still shapes me_  
_So hold me, until it sleeps_  
Metallica, “Until it Sleeps” (1996) 

-x-x-x-

Hortensia surveyed the items on the small table under the mirror: a hairbrush, a folded pale blue cotton dress, and knee socks. She slipped those on and realized there weren’t any undergarments. Fortunately, the dress was longer than the other ones she usually wore for her master, but she felt exposed all the same. 

Her heart kicked up; what was he planning to use her sexually for? Normally, she’d be thrilled at the prospect, but she was more so eager to be back in her own little space upstairs. It had been one hell of a week, to put it mildly. 

On the sink next to the small table sat a toothbrush and paste, so she cleaned her mouth, relishing the bristles against her teeth. Her hair felt lighter, too, nearly back to its normal sleekness save for the thousand or so tiny snarls all over. It took a good fifteen minutes to get them out, during which a lump gathered in her throat. Not dread per se, but some type of reaction borne of nerves. 

The time had come—she could dawdle no longer. With a shaking hand, Hortensia clasped the crystal knob, turned it, and pulled open the door. 

Warmth from the blazing fire enveloped her. Since that provided the only light, the man sitting in the armchair by the fire was in shadow. A yellow glint bounced off the goblet in his hand. 

Hortensia took a tentative step into the room. The bathroom door slammed shut behind her, but she did not turn back, not wishing to see the door to that awful chamber. Would he send her back there?

“Take your position,” her master’s voice ordered from the chair. 

“Yes, Master,” she managed, ambling slowly across the room. Once she was in the center, she turned toward Riddle, who was facing her in the chair, and bowed, sinking to her knobby, aching knees. They and her hands moved across the wooden floor, bringing her to his right side. 

There she sat rigid at his feet, as if the past few days had proceeded normally. Which phase of punishment was she entering now? Hopefully one toward the end. 

“Are you hungry?” he asked in a flat tone.

“No, sir.” She stared straight ahead, legs tucked under her rear, back straight and hands folded in her lap. For a moment, she wondered if she was going to wake up on the cold stone floor, dirty and alone. But her mind was clear, her heart steady. Perhaps he wouldn’t throw her back down there if she behaved. 

Only the crackling of the fire filled the air as minutes passed by. With her newly-established clarity, Hortensia passed the time trying to separate delusion from reality in the chamber. For the second half, that was impossible, but she determined for certain Riddle’s first two appearances had actually happened. 

He’d been so brutal, this man seated beside her. He’d said once that he was more than a man, that his level of sorcery placed him closer to a god. In his ascension, he lost nearly all human aspects, unless he hadn’t any to begin with. He must’ve been born with some but taught to cast it aside. 

She recalled his words when he thought she was rejecting the porridge: _I had it for every meal as a child._ From this and his mother’s death, she could deduce that his upbringing had been less than ideal. "Riddle" was not in The Pureblood Directory, so perhaps his father was of mixed blood. Why had this never occurred to her before? Not relevant, she supposed, just like her own past no longer mattered. 

When he spoke, she jumped, the train of thought coming to a screeching halt. 

“Why have you done this, Hortensia?”

Everything in her froze. She had no answer. No, she did have an answer, but it was just a pathetic excuse that he wouldn’t accept. 

“Tell me,” he urged impatiently. 

“I-I…I’m weak,” she mumbled to her hands. 

“Speak up.” 

“I’m weak, sir,” she repeated, louder. “I can’t contain my urges. Before, when I first…came here, you satiated my every need. When that, erm, ceased, I had to learn how to meet them myself, but I’m not very good at it, apparently. Dreadful, in fact.” 

A horrendous, screaming silence followed her words. She knew he wouldn’t kill her simply for answering his question, but no doubt she was pushing him closer to the tipping point. 

“And why have you not voiced this to me earlier?” 

Hortensia mulled over the question, biting her puffy lower lip. She recalled him telling her that she was just a toy, that she existed for his pleasure. His behavior did a more-than-proficient job backing that up. “I didn’t think my needs are important enough to discuss, sir.”

Now it was her master who paused. “You were mistaken,” he said quietly. 

She turned to look up at him but caught herself just in time, directing her astonished gaze at his knee instead. Behind her head, she heard him set the goblet down on the small table. Then, soft, cool fingertips dragged across her scalp behind her ear, bearing down on her head until the other cheek rested on his thigh. 

Every nerve lit up and her eyes closed, tears mixed with sorrow and relief spilling out. As they soaked his robes, she buried her face into his leg. He continued running his fingers through her hair for a moment before stroking her cheek. 

Hortensia was overwhelmed with conflicting emotions flooding her chest. She was ungodly thrilled to be in this position, hell, alive even, but she couldn’t fully let go. The dread from the chamber fostered mistrust that wouldn’t abate. Not only toward Riddle but herself and this situation. Was it a ploy?

“No need to cry, darling,” her master told her in a low, soothing voice. “Your punishment has ended.”

It took her another minute to get a grip on herself. She turned her head away from his leg to wipe her eyes. Meanwhile, he pressed his fingers into her jaw, gently turning her head until she changed position, resting the back of her head on his leg. His fingers glided over her cheek, up to her temple, and back down again. She sank into a fog of warmth, mouth falling slightly open and limbs going limp. 

He began to trace her lips, slowly dragging the pads of his fingers over them, pulling them further apart. An intense hum started up between her legs and her breath quickened. The tip of her tongue lifted and grazed his skin, sliding against it. In response, he dipped two of his fingers into her mouth. She wrapped her lips and tongue around them as they moved in and out. 

“Face me,” he commanded, gripping her jaw, clamping down on her tongue. She sat up and turned to him. 

His other hand was gripping her hair at the back of her head as he jammed his fingers in and out of her mouth. She was fully aroused now; dampness in between her legs soaked through her dress. 

Gripping her hair tighter, he gave a rough thrust, poking the back of her throat. She squeezed her eyes shut and gagged before he withdrew. A thick rope of saliva clung to his fingers and her lip. She licked it, snapping the rope and sending it down to her chin, while her master looked ready to devour her. 

Then she blinked and a disdainful glare had hardened his handsome features. “You do realize,” he said coldly, “it is an honor for you to be anywhere near me, especially after such an insubordination?” 

“Yes, sir,” Hortensia said, quickly averting her eyes. 

“And that other witches would kill to be in your position? Witches capable of loyalty, who think with their minds and not with their cunts, like you?” 

Her cheeks burned with shame and tears pricked her eyes, but she kept them within the brim. “Yes, sir.” 

“No, I don’t think you do, Hortensia. I think you expect me to accept your belief that you’re worthy enough despite proving otherwise time and time again.”

“Please, Master,” she whimpered, clutching the hem of his robes and bringing them to her lips. “Please let me prove my worth.” 

“Think you’re capable, do you?” he challenged, clenching his fist tighter around her hair, yanking her forward. “Come on, then. Give me what I can’t get from another in your place.” 

With weak hands, she unbuckled his trousers, a thread of doubt running through her mind. Could she fulfill his request? Anyone could perform oral sex, after all. But she alone knew which movements crumbled his cool façade. Those included kissing the tip, pulling thin velvet skin between her lips, and running her tongue down his shaft. After going through the list, she gently pulled up his cock and flattened her tongue against the spot where it met his balls. 

“Yes, like that, my sweet, submissive girl,” he growled, holding onto her hair with both hands and guiding her head. “Dirty Hortensia has an oral fixation, I see. My little slut loves to please me with her mouth, isn’t that right, darling?” 

She answered by dragging her tongue up his shaft and enveloping the tip, suckling softly. She hummed as she released it and set her lips on the underside. “I love your cock, Master,” she breathed against it before pulling his skin between them.

His fists were tugging the hair from her scalp, setting her skin ablaze, but the pain was little compromise for hearing her master’s heavy breaths and feeling the tilting of his hips. 

Just as she raised her arse, wiggling her hips to get fully into it, he abruptly shoved her away. Her arse landed on her feet, her brows joined in alarm. He stood, pulling up his trousers as he walked away. 

He took off his robes and spread them on the desk. “Over here,” he commanded. “Now.” 

She jumped to her feet, the dress sticking to her thighs, and walked over. When she reached the desk, he pushed her flat on her back and lifted her legs. The cotton fabric peeled away from her labia as they parted, while her fingers dug into the skin of her thighs, holding them up. 

“Good girl,” her master said, raising his wand. _“Incarcerous.”_

The conjured ropes tightened around her thighs and wrists, locking her in that position. He pushed up her dress more and surveyed his splayed-out prize, rolling up his sleeves. The entire area between her legs was soaked now, her inner thighs splattered, scenting the air with female arousal. Her labia were throbbing with need under his blank stare, but he did not touch them like she desperately wanted him to. Instead, he flicked his wand, which sprouted a sharp, shiny tip. 

As she watched apprehensively, he sliced her dress in half up the front, revealing her lithe, milky-white torso and two handfuls of breast. Smirking, Riddle brought the knife-edged wand to her throat, his dark eyes filled with mischief, seemingly delighting in her heart-pumping fear. 

“You are so, so beautiful like this, Hortensia,” he told her in a voice so low and seductive, she felt arousal dripping out of her slit and soaking into his robes on the desk. “So beautiful and so much fun to play with.” 

Eyebrows slanted up in plea, she met his eyes, trying to beam worship through her own. He pulled the wand away, the blade retracting, and tucked it in his pocket. He stepped away to return his attention to the pink, glistening skin, now clenching in desire. 

“Filthy little slut wants to be touched so badly, yes?” 

“Yes, Master,” Hortensia whimpered. “Please.”

His knuckle grazed her labia, sending a jolt through her abdomen. She tilted her hips in desperation, but he didn’t touch her further. She opened her mouth to beg him to, but then he ducked his head and captured her hood between his lips. 

Her eyes rolled from the dark-haired head between her thighs, across the ceiling, and to the wall behind her. She slammed the back of her head against the edge of the desk, bringing up dancing spots. “Oh— _ah_!” Her cry of ecstasy turned into a shriek of pain as his teeth caught her clit. He released it and leaned over to meet her lips. 

The taste and smell of her fluid brought another wave of it, trickling out of her slit. “Master, please,” she cried softly. 

He stood upright and moved to the side of the desk. His fist clasped the hair on the top of her head while he played with her breasts, rolling the hard, pink nipples between his thumb and forefinger. Her chest was heaving now, her entire body writhing for release. 

Leaning over and kissing her roughly, her master slapped the slick skin, causing her to cry out against his mouth. He shifted it to her breast and tugged the sensitive skin between his teeth, bringing forth gooseflesh on every surface of her skin. 

She yelped as he slapped her again, feeling her stinging labia start to swell. After another slap, he unlatched his mouth, leaving a blackish-blue half-moon on the curve of her breast. With his two pointer fingers, he spread her farther apart. “The little whore is just dying to be filled, I see.”

“Please, Master,” Hortensia mewled, opening her legs as wide as they could go. 

“Ah, you’re going to have to beg a little more, darling,” he teased, grabbing her thigh and tracing her slit with his fingertip. “I don’t give in so easily.”

“Please, Master, please fill me, I beg you.” Her voice came out as a high-pitched, unflattering whine, but she didn’t care. The only thing that mattered was his fingers against her flesh, radiating heat through her lower half. 

Then, gloriously, he was carrying out her wish, sinking his two fingers into her cocoon of wet warmth. Slowly, almost lovingly, he slid them in and out of her eager hole, rubbing the pads against the button deep within. 

Hortensia’s face scrunched up and heavy sighs escaped her open mouth. She clenched her walls around his fingers when they entered, pushing them out as they left, rocking her hips in rhythm. The rhythm increased, his knuckles slamming into her labia as he reached further inside. 

It mattered not that the edge of the desk was digging into the back of her skull, that the ropes were cutting off circulation to her hands. All else faded out besides her master’s fingers, her bouncing breasts, and the cries from her throat. They grew louder as he gave it to her harder, his thumb flicking her clit. 

Her nerves were ready to burst, her muscles tightening and aching as blissful static took over, and then…then nothing at all. 

Riddle was tsk-ing at her, taking a step backward. His hand was withdrawn, fluid dripping from his fingers. 

“Master, no!” she bawled. “Keep going! PLEASE!” Tears leaked out of her eyes; the urge to burst into sobs was overwhelming. 

He laughed cruelly, slapping her swollen slit. “Cheeky bitch, _I_ tell you when to climax.”

Her growl of frustration tore through the air, which only caused him to chuckle more. He swiped his fluid-coated fingers across her lips, but only for a split-second, preoccupied with yanking down his trousers. He leaned in, filling her with his cock and sending her eyes rolling back to the wall, fluttering closed. 

Firm, cold hands encircled her throat, positioning her until her head hung off the desk and his cock fit snugly inside the slick cocoon. 

“My little cock-toy,” he breathed, his own chest heaving. “My eager little slut is always so willing. Isn’t that right, darling?” 

Hortensia couldn’t speak, for her master’s hands were crushing her voice-box, coming dangerously close to doing the same to her windpipe. But Merlin, his thrusts felt so good, tightening everything up again. His hands clutched her neck tighter… 

She emitted tiny squeaks as he pounded into her, his own head tilting back in pleasure. Colorful spots filled her vision, her breath was hitching in her chest… 

Then a dam broke and released a flood of fluid as she climaxed. Everything went white for at least a moment until her master let go of her throat and pushed up her legs, giving one final thrust, accompanied by a grunt. Warm fluid filled her up; when he pulled out, he stood immediately and adjusted his clothing. 

As Hortensia lie there, touching back down the Earth, he spread her apart once more to watch his seed spill out. After a few seconds of this, he pointed his wand at the ropes and vanished them, freeing her hands and legs. They fell limply, dangling off the desk while her lungs fought for air. 

“Come on, sweetheart,” her master urged, tugging on her arm. “Go to the bed.” 

On the treacherous journey of ten feet, her legs wobbled, her vision doubled, and a stream of fluid soaked her inner thighs. The remnants of her dress dropped off her shoulders, leaving her in just her knee socks. 

Only when she had collapsed on the bed did she realize just how exhausted she was. Every ounce of her was shaking. Her eyes stayed open just long enough to see Riddle take a seat back in his armchair, goblet in hand. The only evidence of their deed was a lock of silver-streaked dark hair hanging loose over his forehead. He stared off into the distance, lifting the goblet to his mouth. This was when her eyes closed and plunged her straight away into a deep, black sleep. 

Only a few minutes later, or so it seemed, Hortensia opened her eyes and found herself in the chamber, surrounded by grey walls and that window high above her. Heart nearly beating out of her chest, she sat up, gasping. No, no, how could she have gotten back in there—?

But she wasn’t in there, she realized, whipping her head around. Down first, to her naked breasts and green blanket, to the closed doors on the right, to the desk, wardrobe—she was in her master’s chamber alright—fireplace, and finally to the leather armchair, where her master himself was seated, watching her. 

Instinctively, Hortensia clutched the blanket over her chest and looked away. The sight of her surroundings should have calmed her, but the chamber door, the far one on the right, tugged on her vision. She never wanted to be there again, not in her dreams nor her reality. Never, never…

Her chest was heaving now, her heart beating so fast, it was one constant deafening hum. An invisible hand gripped her chest, squeezing the air out of her lungs. In a moment of lucidity, she heard ragged breaths bursting through her lips. 

“Hortensia,” said Riddle calmly. “Look at me.” 

She met his dark eyes. He set down the goblet as he told her, “You will not return there if you behave yourself, do you understand me?” 

She nodded, her chest thankfully lightened by his words, but her heart would not slow. “May—may I ask, Master, if I’ll—I will return to the Ministry?” 

He did not answer right away; she assumed he wouldn’t at all before he did a minute later. “Not for the foreseeable future, but likely before Cygnus Black will. That is, if he ever leaves his house again.” He shifted his eyes away from her and let a snide smirk lift his lips. 

Meanwhile, Hortensia’s panic resumed full-force. With a clench of her gut, she recalled the photograph on Cygnus’ desk of his three small daughters. She’d directed a fair bit of anger and loathing toward him in the chamber, but she didn’t want to imagine the fate Riddle dealt him. Her breathing turned to wheezing, forcing her master out of his chair. 

“For Merlin’s sake, Hortensia,” he snapped, storming over to the wardrobe. “You’re acting like a child.”

Unsurprisingly, his admonishment didn’t help, but the vial of turquoise liquid was about to. Without prompt, she leaned back on the pillow and opened her mouth as soon as the glass touched her lips. The vaguely-sweet liquid flowed easily down her throat and warmed her belly. 

Her master sat on the edge of the bed, stroking her hair away from her temples. After a couple of short, soothing moments, she descended into darkness again. 

Yet again she was awakened—this time, her surroundings were pitch black, but fortunately her senses told her right away that she was still in bed, the fire extinguished. The blanket was being pulled from under her arms, cool air enveloping her bare skin. Peeling her eyes open, she reached up and felt cool skin not her own. She ran her palms over it and realized she was gripping a man’s shoulders. 

“Such an alluring little thing you are,” her master growled in her ear, his breath tickling her neck. “Little wonder why men find you so irresistible.”

His words and hands were unleashing a wave of desire through her whole body. Her pale breasts spilled between his fingers as he squeezed them. He dragged his fingertips down her torso, sending a flood of arousal between her legs, dampening her labia. Her musky scent filled her nose, along with the whiskey from his mouth on her neck. 

“Dirty Hortensia basks in the attention,” he continued, reaching between her legs and rubbing back and forth, spreading fluid all over her mound. “She loves to take it like a slut, isn’t that right?” 

“Yes, Master,” she moaned, tilting her head back. 

He was inside her then, leaning over and flattening his chest against her breasts. He’d never had his shirt off before, so this was a new sensation to Hortensia, one she favored instantly. The closeness of her master’s body, his lips on her, his scent in her nose, his fists in her hair…and of course, his deep thrusts, tipping her into the depths of orgasm. When it took her over, she clutched him with her arms and legs, digging her nails into his shoulders, and rammed her hips into his, letting out a primal howl. 

The release slicked up their skin but still he pumped into her. For just a minute, he leaned up and grabbed her breasts before spilling into her. Out of breath, he buried his face into her hair. 

“Think you’re done, do you?” he taunted in her ear, but her focus was on his heart pounding against hers. “I plan on using my toy beyond capacity tonight.”

He pulled away and, to her surprise, landed on his back beside her, propped up on a pillow. Without speaking, he placed a hand on the back of her neck and nudged her closer. Her head met his chest, right below his heart, which had slowed only a little. 

Hortensia was wary of Riddle and terrified of the chamber, but it was easy to forget that when he ran his fingers through her hair and held her close. Though he was cruel, she could think of no place on Earth better for her than here with him. 

-x-x-x-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Please let me know if you enjoyed it<3


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